


Heat Haze Rising

by wave_of_sorrow



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-04
Updated: 2011-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:16:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wave_of_sorrow/pseuds/wave_of_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a heatwave, clothes are shed and shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat Haze Rising

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for a prompt on the kinkmeme.

It was one of those stifling hot summers where each sweltering day is followed by an even more uncomfortable night spent tossing and turning, the sheets stubbornly clinging to sweat-damp skin. The streets of London were nearly empty, for those who could afford it had fled to the country or else stayed inside with the windows wide open, hoping to coax even the smallest breeze inside; even the filthy beggars and working girls had sought refuge in the shadows of the nearest house.

Watson tugged at his collar, feeling the sweat trickle down his back and wishing for nothing more than a tub filled with ice in which he might lie until this infernal heat had gone.

“It really is beyond me why you insist on wearing that thing,” Holmes said, sprawled out on the settee with his shirt hanging open, lazily waving his hand at Watson’s vest and, by now, rumpled shirt.

“We’re not all Bohemians like you, Holmes,” he replied with a long-suffering sigh, “Some of us actually like to wear proper clothing.”

“Isn’t that a shame now,” Holmes murmured so softly that Watson wasn’t sure he even heard it and, when he looked over at him, Holmes’s eyes were closed and his face devoid of expression.

When Watson appeared in the sitting room the next morning he barely had time to sit down at the breakfast table before Holmes was pestering him again.

“For heaven’s sake, man! Aren’t you dying under all that clothing?”

At first Watson tried to ignore him, but when that course of action unsurprisingly proved futile he yanked his vest off and threw it in Holmes’s general direction.

“There! Are you happy now?”

Holmes blinked at him, his expression torn between confusion and amusement. “Why would you taking your clothes off make me happy?”

At this Watson flushed crimson, his face heating up further as he watched Holmes flop down on the tiger skin rug, stretching like a great cat and groaning in obvious pleasure as his back popped in several places. By the time he had recovered enough to actually say something Holmes had dozed off, his soft snores filling the already muggy morning air.

Holmes grinned knowingly at him when Watson surreptitiously removed his cuffs and collar later that day with the afternoon sun hanging low in the sky like an overripe peach and took another long drink of lukewarm water; Watson had to look away as a drop of water escaped the corner of Holmes’s mouth and trickled down the side of his neck to pool above his collarbone.

When he looked up to find Holmes watching him with dark eyes, absent-mindedly sucking on his unlit pipe, Watson’s mouth went curiously dry and, stammering an excuse, he quickly fled the room.

The vision of Holmes’s crooked smile, pipe still clenched between his teeth, flickered behind his closed eyelids and crept into his dreams along with throats glistening with water and arched backs.

He woke in the dark, breathless and confused, with the sheets tangled around his legs and no breeze coming through the open window.

Morning found Holmes facedown on the sitting room floor, spread-eagled with his face buried in a pillow and completely lacking a shirt. Watson crouched down to scratch Gladstone, who was spread out in a similar fashion, behind the ears and tried to ignore the drop of sweat that skidded down Holmes’s ribcage.

“Are you alive, Holmes?”

Holmes groaned into his pillow in such an utterly miserable way that Gladstone whined sympathetically.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Watson sighed, patting the bulldog’s broad head before getting up and pouring two cups of tea.

Holmes rolled onto his back and lazily scratched his belly, leaving faint trails on the sweaty skin. Watson pointedly looked away and concentrated on fixing Holmes’s tea.

“There you go, old boy.” He offered the cup to Holmes who glared at Watson as if he was attempting to poison him.

“You expect me to drink that?” he hissed even as Watson set down the cup and relocated to his armchair, “Your efforts are most appreciated, but I assure you, I am perfectly capable of dying from this heat without your…”

Watson frowned and looked up from the paper to find Holmes staring at his chest with wide eyes.

“What? Is something wrong?” he asked, looking down and inspecting himself as best he could.

“Watson, your shirt is unbuttoned.” The way Holmes said it he made it sound like the world as he knew it had just ended.

“Your perception really is extraordinary, Holmes,” Watson replied dryly.

With a slight start, almost imperceptible except that Watson had been waiting for it, Holmes seemed to recover himself and cleared his throat several times before gulping down the previously unwanted tea.

Watson spent most of the morning either attempting to read or simply lounging in his chair, watching Holmes fidget and frown. By noon the room was unbearably hot, even with the windows wide open, and the city seemed to melt before his very eyes as he looked outside. Time stretched on and he felt himself beginning to doze lightly, the heat-muffled sounds from the street below lulling him to sleep.

The first time he woke it was because his neck was aching. His open shirt was sticking to his skin and he wiped at his sweaty face with his sleeve before settling more comfortably and drifting off again. Holmes’s relaxed face, flushed and slightly damp with sweat as he slept on the settee with Gladstone snoring on his chest, was the last thing he remembered.

When he woke the next time it wasn’t much later, but the sun was shining directly into the sitting room of 221b Baker Street and Watson groaned and squinted against the glaring sunlight. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stretched, feeling sweat trickle down his spine and gather on his chest even from such a small exertion. Belatedly he realized that Holmes was standing a few feet away from him, frowning at him and looking restless.

“Is everything alright?” Watson asked groggily, his voice rough with sleep.

Holmes twitched ever so slightly at the sound of Watson’s voice and immediately looked irritated with himself for his reaction, his frown deepening.

“Watson, I do believe that … that is to say, I am … you …” Holmes huffed and ran a frustrated hand through his hair and Watson had to bite the inside of his cheek in order to keep from laughing as it got stuck there.

He let Holmes tug ineffectually and curse viciously for a few times before getting up to help him.

“Here, let me,” he smiled as he untangled Holmes’s fingers from his hair and smoothed it away from his sweaty forehead.

Holmes’s eyes darted about rapidly and Watson could almost see the wheels in his mind turn faster and faster as Holmes studied the precise angle of his smile, the placement of his hands – one cupping his cheek, the other resting on his bare waist – and analyzed them, before they finally stuttered to a halt as he reached a decision.

Carefully he wound his arms around Watson’s waist, below his shirt, staring at him with wide, attentive eyes as he slowly stroked his thumbs along the sides of his spine. Watson vaguely felt as if dealing with a frightened animal, hardly daring to breathe for fear or startling Holmes. Holmes, who was leaning forward until their noses bumped and breaths mingled, hot and humid between their open mouths.

The first touch of their lips was almost accidental and it surprised Holmes into pulling back. But it only took him a moment, a pounding heartbeat, to dive back in, clutching Watson’s face between his palms.

They tangled their tongues together with low groans, lips already moving against each other with startling familiarity as they became acquainted with the other’s body. Clothes were discarded urgently and gracelessly as they unsuccessfully attempted to keep their mouths locked while undressing. Holmes moaned as Watson settled on top of him on the rug, spreading his legs and twisting his hips in the most delicious way.

They instinctively found the right angle and rhythm as they rutted against each other, their cocks sliding slickly between their bellies, as Watson licked along Holmes’s salty neck. The almost feline sound Holmes made when Watson sank his teeth into the soft flesh below his ear, hips bucking upwards, was enough to make Watson thrust harder against him.

Watson pinched and rolled Holmes’s nipples until they were red and swollen and Holmes was keening, twisting this way and that as if unsure whether he wanted more of that pleasure-pain or not. Their kisses grew messy and frantic, threads of saliva linking their mouths and trickling down Holmes’s chin. Watson licked and bit along Holmes’s jaw and chin, sweat and saliva mingling on his tongue as he hitched Holmes’s leg higher.

Beads of sweat rolled down Watson’s temples, dripped off his chin and into Holmes’s waiting mouth and sooner than expected Holmes’s legs were tightening around Watson’s waist and, with a series of throaty groans, he spent himself between their bellies, ragged fingernails finding no purchase on Watson’s slick back. With the feeling of Holmes’s cock jerking against his stomach and the soft, post-coital sounds he was emitting, it didn’t take Watson long to follow him with a curse and a growl.

They rolled off each other, panting harshly, sweat and semen slowly cooling on their overheated skin. When he had caught his breath, Watson looked over at Holmes who had his eyes closed and was absentmindedly swirling his fingers through their combined release on his abdomen. Watson grinned lazily as his cock twitched slightly at the sight before getting up and retrieving cold water and a washcloth.

Holmes regarded him sleepily with one eye open as he gently cleaned first his own and then Holmes’s stomach, running his finger along the rim of Holmes’s navel and delighting in the full body shudder he received.

At Holmes’s yawn Watson threw his trousers at him, but only got a sleepy, uncooperative sound in return and was faced with the tricky task of putting a highly reluctant Holmes back into his trousers. Once that was accomplished, and Watson had also put his own trousers on, he lay back down on the rug, still feeling uncomfortably hot and sweaty, but much less irritable. He turned onto his side and loosely threw an arm over Holmes’s chest, taking care to keep some space between their bodies. He skimmed his mouth along Holmes’s cheek, receiving a pleased hum, before settling down to doze in the stifling afternoon air.


End file.
